


Unraveling

by chaineddove



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-09
Updated: 2012-06-09
Packaged: 2017-11-07 08:40:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/429061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaineddove/pseuds/chaineddove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A progression leading Anders to become Vengeance.  A look at the mage's uneasy relationship with Justice, his psyche, and the world around him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unraveling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [townshend](https://archiveofourown.org/users/townshend/gifts).



> Includes mentions of unrequited Anders->Hawke and brief appearances by Rolan, Karl, Ella, First Enchanter Irving, Solona Amell, and Jowan. Please see the end of the work for more notes, mostly about process and apologies to the giftee...

He does not know anymore what he expected, but it was certainly not this; the disorientation, the spans of memory fogged past recognition, the strangeness of the sun on his face and the feeling of being not quite at home in his own skin. And the anger, the pulsing waves of it coming and going until he thinks he might go mad with them, if he is not mad already.

This is madness; this is freedom.

Anders has always been good at running, and so he runs. It is inevitable.

***

Sometimes he will reach out and touch – the rough bark of a tree, the delicate petals of a wildflower, the cool, slippery surface of a stone jutting from a burbling stream. Sometimes, he is overwhelmed by the silence and the scent of pine and the vastness of the sky. He is a fugitive, but he has this, the whole world spreading around him, the breeze carrying the scent of rain. This is something he will kill for. This is something he _has_ killed for.

Seven times, he has run, yearning for this. The eighth time, he runs for those who have never known to yearn for it.

***

There is no insidious voice in the back of his mind, driving him to violence. Perhaps it might be easier if it were so, but he remains alone in his own head, although he does feel, now and again, the disconcerting sensation of being watched. Maybe it is paranoia, but awareness is the best way to stay alive, and despite everything, his sense of self-preservation is stronger than his fear of what he has become.

But the anger, the _fury_ , is all-consuming.

If he concentrates, he can remember a time before anger. But the memories are worn and faded, like threadbare linen, soft to the touch but flimsy.

***

The sky explodes with thunder and lightning, and the waves toss the ship like a toy brandished by an unruly toddler. Many people are sick, and he soothes their fevered brows and roiling stomachs. They are too ill, and too scared, to care where the help comes from, so long as it comes. He drains himself dry, again and again, to give them comfort, and himself peace. He can do nothing else; this healing is like a compulsion. This is right. This is _just_.

For the first time since he ran, he feels almost himself again.

He allows them to sweep him along into the slums, and finds himself a squalid, dark corner. It is away from the breeze and the sun, but he is safe there, and the city is safe from him.

***

There is something in Hawke’s smile which wakes in him an emotion other than the anger, and other than the peace. It is the smile more than the promise of help that coaxes him from his hermitage and back into the world.

Hawke never notices, and Anders never speaks of it, but the world, the injustice of it, is just where he left it. It comes rushing back into him, like the fresh air filling his lungs, and with it comes the pulse of fury and the loss of his carefully cultivated control. Looking into Karl’s empty eyes, his fate is sealed.

He trades his comfort and his ignorance for a smile and a mission. He is still afraid, but he cannot stop now that he has begun.

***

He does not talk to himself, and thinks that the others find the fact comforting. Surely if he is not muttering under his breath, he is not mad yet.

He does not disabuse them of their notion; let them have their false comfort. They do not deserve his demons.

***

He dreams, occasionally. Sometimes, the dreams are whispers in the dark; he has left the Wardens but blood will always tell, no matter how far he runs. Sometimes, the whispers are Hawke’s voice. He dreams of Rolan and he dreams of Karl; he dreams of the Deep Roads and the Tower dungeons. Sometimes, he dreams of the stillness of pine forests, and sometimes the trees around him are burning and his hands are covered in blood. He wakes with his hands clammy and shaking, his mind and body out of kilter. 

He dreams of the Knight Commander, of putting his hands around her throat and squeezing, squeezing, squeezing until she goes limp in his grasp. From these dreams, he wakes short of breath, his heart racing as if from a lover’s touch. He dreams of the little dark-haired mage-girl, of her wide eyes as he looms over her, her salvation and her doom. He hears her scream and feels the tears at the corner of his eyes, hot with his shame.

He cannot be trusted to protect those he has sworn to liberate, and he cannot be counted on to destroy those against whom he has vowed vengeance. He does not have the necessary control to distinguish one from the other.

***

The memories of the time before the fury are dim as a rule, but a few remain in startling clarity. He remembers every lash on his back, every insult and degradation thrown his way, the cold of the basement cells. He cannot clearly recall Solona and Jowan; they are faded specters in his past, shrouded in childish laughter and the small joys that can be found in the midst of imprisonment. But he clearly remembers Irving, hands gentle on his, guiding him through his first major enchantment. _When you find yourself tangled up in it, you must start again, from nothing. It is easier to build something from nothing than to untangle what is inherently flawed._

Those words come back to him, as he watches the situation in Kirkwall spiral to new lows. “If you have an actionable suggestion,” Hawke tells him with a pained look, “you are free to offer it.” The vastness of the responsibility placed upon Hawke’s shoulders has driven them to the Hanged Man, again; Anders gets no relief from ale, but he understands why Hawke drinks. “Otherwise,” Hawke continues, words ever-so-slightly slurred, “all we can do is put out fires.”

“He’s better at starting them,” Fenris says with obvious disgust.

Anders does not think Hawke will understand the beauty of Irving’s logic.

***

He cannot stand the stillness he once sought; in the stillness, there is no change, and change is the only thing that matters now. Even Hawke’s smile, once yearned-for, has lost its appeal. The world must change, or he will surely lose what few shreds of sanity he still possesses. He has lost so many of the things that once brought color to his life: curiosity, humor, affection, love. What is left to him now is vengeance. He does not know if he can still distinguish wrong from right, but he does know that if he does not do something, he will surely be unable to keep drawing breath. 

He once feared death; now he bows to its inevitability. But if he is to die, it will be an act of transformation. He cannot live in this world any longer, but he must leave it changed.

He does not tell Hawke. He cannot tell anyone.

He is the instrument of justice, and he will rewrite the course of history.

***

“I’m not proving a point. I’m changing a world.” He sees the shock and betrayal in Hawke’s eyes, acknowledges it, makes it a part of him. He is the instrument of justice, but he is not blameless; this pain is a part of his punishment, and for what he has done, he will accept it gladly. “I thought you of all people would understand.” 

But it seems Hawke cannot understand, any more than Anders can find the words to explain. Perhaps this, too, is inevitable. _It is easier to build something from nothing than to untangle what is inherently flawed._

The knife rises and falls. The pain is like a flash of light; he makes not a sound as everything fades to darkness. He feels the fury and the madness flowing out of him, like blood.

_Justice is done._

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so, first things first: dear giftee, I don't know that this is what you had in mind, but I tried my best! When I clicked "all," I somehow didn't think to mention that I have an excruciatingly difficult time envisioning (let alone writing) male Hawke. As a result, you might notice that the gender (and class) of Hawke are unspecified in this fic. I didn't think either of those factors had much bearing on Anders' decision, anyway, so please picture the Hawke you know and love best ♥
> 
> Next, I realize that Fenris had a bit part, but I did put him in just for you. Also, it's odd, but I've found I tend to use the Solona Amell backstory whenever I write sad fic. I wonder why?
> 
> And finally, I almost feel like I should apologize for the ending, but I couldn't possibly take it anywhere else with the progression I had set up. I hope you're not too disappointed - and I hope the exploration of Anders' psyche is what you wished for. It came out very stream-of-consciousness and freeform, but I suppose losing yourself would go that way. For some reason, that dialogue from Awakenings when he talks about the smell of freedom stuck with me, and the whole fic grew out of that.
> 
> Basically, the short version of these notes: every time I sign up for a DA challenge, I end up having to go waaaaaaaaay out of my comfort zone. I'm not sure if I'm exasperated or grateful *lol* In any case, I hope the result is pleasing to someone ^_^.


End file.
